From Past to Present
by fluttermoth
Summary: A collection of Skyrim drabbles. Pairings so far: Cicero/Listener, Erandur/F!OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Winds

**Characters: **Lumen and Cicero

**Summary:** It's just fluff.

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><p>"Cicero is <em>cold<em>," the Keeper complains and scoots closer to the fire-pit. Lumen does not respond. Instead she remains focused on cramming wolf pelts beneath the front door in a desperate attempt to keep the frigid winds of the Pale from blowing inside. "Cicero cannot feel his toes," he continues, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. "Or his rear."

Behind him, he can hear Lumen mutter something under her breath, and he smiles to himself when she abandons her futile task to see to him. He watches her as she yanks a heavy, wool blanket from her bed. The reckless action sends a small, decorative pillow flying to the floor. But it is forgotten when Lumen drapes the blanket across his shoulders.

He opens his mouth to thank her, but falls silent when she sits beside him to share her blanket and her warmth. His heart races when she slips an arm around him, and pulls him closer with the other. Those hands, which have broken bones and snuffed out so many lives, are deceptively gentle as she guides him to lay his head upon her shoulder. Lumen rests her cheek against the top of his head, her fingers idly playing with strands of his hair, and poor, frozen Cicero could not be happier.

Heat spreads throughout his chest when she begins to quietly hum. But Cicero can hardly hear the tune above the howling winds, and he places his gloved hand against her throat, hoping to _feel_ her voice if he can't hear it. Lumen stops for only a moment, and he's terrified that she'll push him away, but to his surprise she begins to hum again - louder this time.

Cicero cherishes these moments with his Listener, who seldom shows him affection without complaint. She only initiates it when the world is dark and all are asleep, when there are no witnesses to the rare moments when she is completely open.

When she is _his_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Succulent

**Characters:** Lumen, Cicero, Camilla, Sven, and Faendal

**Summary:** Cicero and Lumen help Faendal ruin Sven's chances with Camilla... In their own way, of course.

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><p>A small crowd gathers in the street in front of the Riverwood Trader. At first it had consisted of a few curious passersby, drawn by the sounds of shouting coming from inside the store. But when the arguing couple had taken their fight to the street, they had drawn even more onlookers.<p>

"Camilla!" Sven shouts, ducking quickly to dodge an apple that Camilla lobs at his head. "I didn't write that stupid poem!"

"I don't believe you, Sven!" she yells, her eyes shining with anger. "I have never been so humiliated! I never want to talk to you again!" Behind her, her brother drags his hand down his face, muttering something that can't be heard amidst all the shouting.

"Camilla, _please_. I would never write something so— _so vulgar_!"

Two Bosmer and an oddly-dressed Imperial stand near the local blacksmith's home, away from the small crowd and the fighting couple. Faendal glances at his companions, who are gleefully watching the chaos unfold. "The letter I gave you wasn't vulgar..."

"It wasn't," Lumen says, leaning on the railing of the blacksmith's porch. "It just wasn't very offensive at all."

"Especially not in comparison to the fake letter Sven asked us to deliver," Cicero adds helpfully.

"What? Sven asked you to give her a fake letter?" Faendal asks, surprised.

Lumen nods. "Yeah. Great minds think alike, I guess."

Faendal chooses to ignore the insult and asks, "so what did you do?"

"Well, I couldn't decide which one of you to help. I mean, you're both acting like complete idiots for this woman."

"But sweet, helpful Cicero convinced Lumen that we should help you."

"Not that I am complaining, but what made you decide to help me rather than Sven?" he asks, crossing his arms and keeping a wary eye on the commotion in the street.

Lumen grins up at him. "We decided to help you because you're the _cute_ one."

"I'm flattered," Faendal says, though at the moment, he feels anything but. "But that doesn't explain why Camilla is so upset."

"Well, your poem was, er, _lacking_. So we wrote a new one," Lumen tells him, then gasps in delight. "Did you see that? She smacked him!" she laughs, clapping Faendal roughly on the back. "I wish you the best of luck, she's got a nasty temper."

"She's just spirited."

"Uh huh. I'm sure you'll change your tune when you're not so utterly besotted with her."

"I'm not _besotted_—"

"Yes you are. Whenever you talk about her you get this big, dopey grin on your face."

Faendal frowns, ready to argue his point further when Cicero distracts him by waving a piece of parchment at him.

"Here! Cicero wrote a copy of the poem for himself," he smiles at the Bosmer, who is at least a head taller than he is, and adds, "Faendal may read it if he wishes."

"Why did you make a copy of it?" Faendal asks, as he takes the parchment from Cicero.

"It was Cicero and Lumen's first collaborative work, it seemed like something worth saving," Cicero turns to Lumen, sounding a little uncertain when he asks, "It is worth saving, right?"

"Sure," Lumen shrugs. "I liked it."

Faendal unfolds the parchment and begins to read aloud, "I long to take you on your hands and knees, filling you with my hot, Nordic seed—" he quickly falls silent. Blushing furiously and unable to find his voice.

"It's pretty good isn't it?" Lumen asks.

"Ooh!" Cicero chimes in, "read the part about how he wants to wrap her soft, succulent thighs around his face and—"

"_No_!" Faendal snaps. "Gods, no. That's quite all right. I think I've read enough," he stammers, handing the parchment back to Cicero.

"No one appreciates erotic poetry these days," Cicero sniffs. The Imperial couldn't look more offended as he carefully folds the paper and places it in one of the many pouches lining his belt.

Lumen grins slyly at Faendal. "Oh, don't act so innocent. Certainly you want to 'ride her as a Nord rides a steed into battle.'" Lumen punctuates her statement by grabbing her companion by the belt and miming a hip-thrusting action.

Cicero cackles. "Oh, Cicero has not been on the receiving end in quite some time," he says, all while grinning over his shoulder at Lumen and arching his back so his rear presses firmly against her hips.

Faendal's eyes grow wide. "I— you—" he sputters, turning away from the pair. "Thank you for your help, but I should get back to work. I have— wood to chop."

Lumen snorts, releasing Cicero from her grasp. "So, do you still think Riverwood is boring?"

"Yes," Cicero says, standing up straight and righting his cap, which had been knocked askew thanks to Lumen's enthusiastic thrusts. "But it was less boring today."

"I still say 'succulent' is an odd way to describe a woman's thighs," she comments, folding her arms and watching Faendal's retreating form. "It's like you're comparing her to a roasting hen."

Cicero clicks his tongue. "Poor, under appreciated Cicero was just thinking about how he would describe the Listener's thighs when he wrote that."

"Oh, _thanks_," she says, swatting him on the arm.

"It is a compliment!" Cicero flinches away from her, rubbing his arm and trying to look as pathetic as he possibly can. "It really is."

Lumen shakes her head, unable to keep herself from smiling. "Come on, Keeper. Let's go home," she says, then adds, "and I expect you to find a much nicer way to describe my thighs."

"Well Cicero supposes he can do that," he murmurs, a sly grin creeping across his face. "But Cicero will have to walk behind sweet Lumen so he can observe."

"Oh, but of course. Observe all you like," Lumen says, turning away from Cicero. She saunters toward the road that will lead them home, with an extra sway to her hips as the Keeper follows after her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Careless

**Characters:** Erandur and Maeve (mage OC; not the dragonborn)

**Summary**: Erandur gets a little snappy when you heal him in-game, so I wrote this drabble based on that. No warnings. Just fluff and a little hurt/comfort.

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><p>With Nightcaller Temple finally cleansed of Vaermina's filth, the people of Dawnstar will sleep peacefully, and sleep is exactly the thing Maeve wants most. The desire to sleep nightmare free had been the reason she agreed to help Erandur in the first place. For some reason she'd thought cleansing the temple would be much easier than it actually was. She'd expected the Priest of Mara to walk in, chant, maybe wave some burning sage around and that would be it. Maeve had not expected to contend with a handful of reanimated cultists and a thoroughly pissed off Orc war party.<p>

"_This is the last time I help a priest_," she thinks as she passes by Erandur's makeshift shrine. It's true she left the College of Winterhold seeking adventure after she'd grown tired of rotting along with the rest of the mages in their little tower above the sea. But to Maeve, adventure meant throwing fireballs at the occasional bandit and collecting a bounty or two. Not dealing with psychotic daedra and their worshippers.

Maeve sighs, plopping down on a bench in front of the shrine. "I think I could sleep for a week after that," she says, yanking a boot off and rubbing her aching foot.

Erandur hesitates, as he often does, as if he must carefully weigh all of his words. "I cannot thank you enough for helping me," he finally says.

"Pardon me for saying so, but you don't seem very happy."

"I am conflicted," he tells her. "On one hand, I am pleased that the people of Dawnstar will no longer suffer from Vaermina's nightmares..."

"I'm guessing there's a big, fat 'but' in there."

He gives her a pinched look. "The cultists were my friends a long time ago, and it saddens me that their souls have been sent to Vaermina's realm."

Maeve shrugs. "They chose that path. Just be glad you were able to choose a new one," she says, and Erandur nods, the subject of the cultist's fate dropped for now. Maeve tugs her boot on, then stands and straightens her robes. "Anyway, um, I guess I am going back to the inn," she tells him. "Are you coming? You can't possibly stay _here_."

"My intention is to spend the rest of my years here, burying the past and praying to Mara for forgiveness."

"The _rest _of your _years_?" she asks incredulously.

"I did many of unspeakable things when I was in service to Vaermina," he admits. "I have much to atone for."

"I see. Well, if you're going to be here, at least I know where to find you. I'll come visit from time to time if you like?" Maeve doesn't know the Dunmer very well. But he's been kind enough to her and he certainly seems like someone who could use a friend.

Erandur does smile at that. "I would like that very much, Maeve."

She walks toward the door, wincing when she feels the icy breeze seeping through the cracks in the wood. Turning back to Erandur, she says, "You should do that more often, by the way."

"Do what?"

"Smile," she says, and slips through the door before he can respond.

* * *

><p>Months pass, and winter warms into spring. But in Dawnstar that doesn't mean much, only that one might see a little sunshine along with the snow. Maeve walks the familiar path from Dawnstar to Nightcaller Temple, or as the people of Dawnstar still call it, the Tower of Dawn.<p>

Maeve has done rather well for herself over the past few months. She's been named the Thane of Riften and even managed to scrape together enough gold to purchase a home. But despite her success in Riften, thoughts of Erandur keep pulling her back to Dawnstar, and as a result, she hasn't been home in weeks. She'd like to say she stays for the lovely weather, or some other silly reason, but the truth is that she's grown to care for Erandur. Intensely so. Sometimes she wonders if the way her heart flutters when he smiles at her is a gift from Lady Mara, or a curse. Because it _hurts_. It hurts with such an intensity she doesn't know if she can stand it. It hurts because she doubts he'll ever feel the same, not when he's so wrapped up in punishing himself for the mistakes of his past.

"Anyone home?" Maeve calls out as she pushes the heavy wood and iron door open. She steps inside the temple and is greeted by the scent of firewood and jasmine cloying in the air, and there, kneeling at the small shrine is Erandur. He stands when he sees her, his lips curling up into one of his short-lived smiles, and the warmth that rushes through her at the very sight of it chases away the lingering chill of the northern winds.

"Maeve," he says, inclining his head. "It's good to see you again."

"You saw me yesterday, you know," she says, laughing.

His smile fades into something softer. Something timid and uncertain. He turns away slightly, and says, "I know. But you are a dear friend and I am always glad to see you. It doesn't matter how much time has elapsed in between visits."

"Oh, good," she says lightly. "And here I was worried you were starting to tire of my company." Maeve steps closer to him, and as her eyes adjust to the dim firelight, she can see that he looks a little worse for wear. His face is becoming more gaunt with each passing day, and the dark circles beneath his eyes are more pronounced than they were yesterday. She _has_ to get him out of this temple. Lady Mara would not want him wallowing in squalor and despair any longer.

"You needn't worry about that, Maeve," he says, awarding her with a little smirk before turning away to relight a few candles that blew out when Maeve opened the door. "So what brings you today?"

"Maybe I just wanted to visit with my favorite Dunmer," she says with a shrug. "Which is the same answer I gave you yesterday-"

Erandur breathes a soft chuckle. "And the day before."

Maeve smiles at the sound of his laughter, as quiet as it is, it's rather pleasing to hear. "I strive for consistency," she says. "Actually, I came here to ask you if you'd like to travel with me. I have a house in Riften, you know, and it probably wouldn't hurt to have it blessed." She hates to be vague, but he can't stay another day in this temple. It is doing him more harm than good.

"All right." His answer comes easily, as if he'd been waiting for a reason, _any reason_, to leave Nightcaller Temple behind.

Maeve is surprised that he agrees so quickly. She had been expecting a little resistance from the Dunmer. "How long will it take you to pack? As much as I love Dawnstar, I'm ready to be in a warmer climate for a little while."

He smiles again. "It won't take long, just give me a few minutes and we can be on our way."

* * *

><p>They have been on the road for barely a day and things are already going horribly wrong. First it's wolves, then bandits, and now as the sun begins to set, vampires. Of course, when the vampires show up that's when things start to go from bad to worse.<p>

It all happens so fast. The battle is a flurry of chaos; blades and spells tear through the air at lightning speed. But when Maeve turns to see the blade of a dagger piercing Erandur's chest, time seems to slow to a crawl. A river of crimson pours from the wound despite Erandur's efforts to stem the flow. There's so much blood Maeve doesn't know if he will survive.

She moves quickly, ending the vampire's un-life before he has the chance to sink his fangs into the wounded Dunmer at his feet. Maeve rushes to Erandur's side, casting a quick look around to make sure no other vampires are preparing to strike, but they are all dead. A Breton battlemage and a Dunmer priest are not the easy targets the cretins thought they would be.

Maeve places her hands over the deep, seeping gash in Erandur's chest, trying like the Void to focus on calling on her magicka, though it is rather difficult when each labored breath from him is like a kick to the gut. If she loses him… No, no. She can't afford to think like that _now_. The bright, golden pulse of a healing spell flares in her hands, knitting his torn flesh together. His breathing slows and evens as she pushes her healing magic deep within him, deep enough to ease the bone-deep ache of a recent battle.

Her hand must have lingered on his chest for too long. She isn't sure. But he pushes her hands away, rougher than she ever would expect him to, and he narrows his eyes at her. "I hope you're not expecting a 'thank you'!" he snaps, adjusting his robes as he stands and strides away from her, leaving her hurt and utterly confused. For a brief moment she wonders if she's trapped in a strange dream, but she knows that can't be true, because no dream ever hurt like _this_.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them as they sift through the piles of ash that were once bodies. Bodies of people who loved and lost, and eventually turned. Maeve wonders if vampires were burdened by such painful and foolish notions such as love. There mere thought of love tastes as bitter as vampire ash. Who knew that a few careless words, and an equally careless emotion could rend her warrior's heart in two? She shakes her head in a vain attempt to cast away any remnants of that soft feeling, and the hot tears that prick at her eyes. It's not the first time she loved someone who didn't feel the same way, and she'll get over it just like she did with the others. "_It's no big deal,"_ she silently assures herself, so willing to believe her own lies if only they would give her reprieve from the ache that no healing spell could ever mend.

They travel in silence for hours, and the harsh, cold winds of the Pale become softer and warmer as they head further south. Glittering expanses of snow give way to fields of grass and farmlands, and they stop for the night at an inn just off the road.

Maeve lingers beside Erandur as he pays for their rooms, and once the transaction is complete he turns to her, his eyes tired and weary. "Good night, Maeve," he says, sounding as mournful as ever, and he steps away from her, quickly vanishing behind the door of his room before Maeve can respond.

Her confusion turns to irritation when she enters her room, and she throws her traveling pack down with more force than necessary. What in the name of Mara is wrong with him? What changed after one, simple healing spell?

Then it hits her, that healing spell was the first time she's ever touched him, and she wonders if she'd crossed a boundary and pushed him out of his comfort zone. Erandur has been through so much, and he's experienced so much more pain than she ever has. To those who have known only pain, the most simple and innocent of actions can trigger distressing memories of the past. Guilt gnaws at her as she sinks down to the bed, though she tries to ignore it. She'll apologize tomorrow, and perhaps that will set things right—

No. This can't wait until tomorrow. _She_ can't wait.

She strides to the door, her feet almost moving of their own accord as if some unseen force is driving her forward. Maeve wrenches the door open and walks face-first into a very surprised Erandur, and she stumbles back, only to be steadied by his gentle hands, her heart melting all over again when he smiles at her.

"Maeve-"

"Erandur-"

They both laugh. The uncomfortable fog that had enveloped them finally dissipating in the warmth of his smile, which Maeve cannot help but return.

"May I come in?" he asks.

"Oh, yes. Of course, I'm sorry, I-" Maeve's voice trails off when his smile fades, and her heart threatens to break at the sorrow in his eyes.

"I want to apologize for my behavior earlier, I was-"

"Startled?"

"No." Erandur shakes his head. "I was cruel, and for that I am truly sorry."

Maeve shrugs and says, "It's all right." Because it is. Because he is speaking to her with his pleasantly accented voice and watching her with his kind eyes, and as long as he keeps doing that, everything will be fine.

He steps forward, gently taking her hands in his. "Your kindness and friendship are more than I deserve," he says, and she so dearly wishes he would stop speaking ill of himself, and she almost tells him so, but the severity of his expression steals her will to speak. "I abandoned those who once considered me a friend, a brother-" he takes a deep breath, not finished, but not able to continue.

"Go on," she says, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You can tell me."

He laughs in spite of himself. "A little known fact about restoration magic, is that it's one of the more emotionally charged schools of magic. Next to destruction, of course. So when you healed me- I felt-" he pauses, then after some deliberation he finally says, "I felt _you_."

Maeve looks away, dread spreading in the pit of her stomach when she finally realizes what he's trying to tell her. Healing him had opened him up to her emotions, and as her healing magic caressed his flesh, it had pushed even further than she meant for it to because she had been so afraid of losing him. As a result, her magic touched his soul, and granted him a glimpse inside hers.

"Maeve," he says, his voice almost pleading. "I am honored. Deeply. But I am not worthy. I am a coward and I have proven that to be true on many occasions. I ran from my friends and left them to die, and today, I ran from you."

Maeve snorts, unable to keep from smiling. "So that's why you acted like such a grump, earlier?" she asks. "Because you think you aren't worthy of love?"

"In so many words, yes," he admits.

"Well, that's not likely to stop me from-" she hesitates, but she may as well admit it, he's already felt it "—from loving you."

"Maeve," he says, and he's got that look in his eyes, that same look he gets when he's so desperately trying to convince her that he's right. But he's not. Not about this.

"Erandur, for a Priest of Mara you certainly are blind to the gifts your goddess has laid at your feet."

That stuns him as sure as a slap to the face would. "I am a fool," he murmurs.

"You are," she says. "But that doesn't change how I feel."

"Then I am a very lucky fool," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "And I owe you my thanks."

"For what? For getting you to a nicer climate? For healing you?" Maeve smiles at him, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. Giddy with the thrill of being so close to getting what she's wanted for so long. "Really, I've done quite a few things to earn your gratitude, so specifics would be nice."

Erandur pulls her into an embrace, and Maeve melts against him when he says, "For warming my heart."


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt:** Cagamosis (an unhappy marriage)

**Pairing:** Bolli/Nivenor

This was written for a word prompt meme that was floating around on tumblr. I really enjoyed writing this one. I think I might expand on this idea someday.

Sometimes she wondered when love turned to hate. It happened so slowly, it was almost impossible to pin-point the exact moment when it turned. But the dark, twisting mass of anger and hurt was too much to bear, and _she wanted out_. She could hear the whispers of the townspeople as she walked through Riften's busy streets. Her keen, elven ears didn't miss their whispers of "Poor Nivenor, she must be so embarrassed."

They were right. She was embarrassed.

For a while, frivolously spending Bolli's hard-earned money was revenge enough. It's not as if she could stop him from visiting Haelga. It's not as if she could force him to keep it in his pants. She tried, though. She confronted him about his indiscretions more times than she cared to count, and all he had were half-assed excuses. Eventually, his excuses became accusations. It was her fault, after all. She's a bad wife. She couldn't please him the way Halega did.

What an ass.

At least she had the decency to keep her affairs private. No one but her husband knew about the young dock worker she entertained herself with. He was everything Bolli was not. All sun tanned skin and hard earned muscle, and completely enamoured with her. But it wasn't enough to keep Bolli home. It wasn't enough to inspire him to claim his wife once more. He simply accepted it as the way things were, and then went crawling back to Haelga.

Nivenor thought about leaving him, but that would be giving him exactly what he wanted, and leaving him meant leaving his money. She wasn't about to make herself destitute because of him. Nivenor couldn't live with him, or the shame he brought upon her. But she couldn't live without his money, either. There was only one way to be rid of him, while keeping a firm hold on his money. She needed to arrange an accident. But, how? She would be caught if she did it on her own, and Nivenor needed to be the very picture of an innocent, grieving widow.

She struggled with the idea for weeks. How do you ask someone to kill for you? And where would she even find such a person? She didn't have any friends to speak of, and she certainly didn't have any acquaintances who would do something like that.

The answer to her question came to her when she least expected it; she was glancing through some books for sale at one of the open stalls when she came across _it._ There, at the bottom of a crate of discount books was an old tome. It was frayed and worn, but the nearly illegible letters of the front title piqued her curiosity. She picked it up and ran her fingers across the embossed text. The gold leaf had worn off years ago, but the leather still held the indentation of the words - _A Kiss, Sweet Mother_.

Stealing the book was easy, and gathering the materials for the Black Sacrament was even easier. And on a dark night when the moons were new and Bolli was wrapped between another woman's thighs, Nivenor arranged the deadly offering in the basement of an abandoned house. Human bones, a human heart, candles and nightshade. All innocuous on their own, but together they would carry her prayer to the Night Mother.

Her hands shook violently when she rubbed nightshade petals across the blade of a dagger. Part of her wanted to flee, but she couldn't return to her unhappy home and her unhappy life. She could no longer bear the shame of an unfaithful husband, nor could she bear the looks the townspeople gave her. She was tired of being pitied. She was tired of being mocked. She was tired of Bolli.

With her mind made up, she held the anointed dagger aloft and whispered her prayer. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me-" her voice wavered. She could feel something dark coiling around her heart as the words left her in a rush. But it was too late to stop. She would finish this, even if the dark deed would cost her more than gold in the end. Nivenor stabbed the effigy of her husband, the tip of the dagger splintering the rotten, wood floor. "- for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."


End file.
